Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet?
by mrspetervincent
Summary: I've always wanted to write Sherlock on cocaine, so here you go. Title from the Fall Out Boy song "Sugar We're Going Down." Warnings for drug use, though it isn't described explicitly.


**A/N**: Quick & unbeta'd; I apologize if it's not good.

* * *

John groggily stomped up the stairs to the flat, a heavy plastic grocery bag in one hand. He had an exhausting day, first the surgery, then a meeting at some local with his old football mates, and then a quick stop at the grocery for milk, and he was relieved to be finally home. He smiled inwardly; he liked being able to call his and Sherlock's flat "home".

He reached the door and pushed it open, unsurprised when he saw Sherlock laying motionless on the couch, facing the back cushions. He assumed he was sleeping as he walked through to the kitchen, and while it was uncharacteristic of Sherlock to sleep unless forced to do so, John guessed that was good. No one can or should go more than 36 hours without sleep, even Sherlock. When he returned to the living room and was met with the sight of Sherlock sitting upright on the edge of the couch, though, elbows on his knees and fingers tapping hyperactively against his chin he realized his assumption was wrong.

"Hello, John." Sherlock bolted up from the couch, practically skipping over to the soldier.

"Well. Someone's up and at 'em." John chuckled with an uneasy edge. Something about Sherlock's giddiness was putting him off, but he smiled up at him anyways before walking around him and making his way to his favorite armchair. He leaned down to reach for today's paper, seeing as he had been too busy at the surgery to read it, but it was quickly pulled from his hand as a heavy weight dressed in silk pyjamas and a robe settled on top of him.

"When was the last time we had sex, John?" His eyebrows shot up at Sherlock's question; it was straight-forward, even for him.

"Wh- um, 'bout a couple weeks? I dunno - what's gotten into you?" John wondered as Sherlock pressed him back into the chair, shifting one of his legs over John's lap to straddle him. They weren't a very physical couple, sex wasn't a priority for them. Even when they did, it was on special occasions, like to celebrate solving a particularly puzzling case or when they were away from home.

"Too long." Sherlock claimed John's mouth insistently, trying to force his tongue past John's lips. John could feel Sherlock's body trembling above his, the normally oddly cold detective now overheated and uncomfortably so.

John couldn't escape Sherlock's lips until he grabbed the sides of his face and forcibly pulled him away. Even then, he was straining to kiss John more. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Fine, never better, shag me," Sherlock blurted out all at once and all too quick, but John kept his grip, scrutinizing his face. His pupils were dilated, his skin was flushed, and he was breathing far too fast for John's comfort. He covered Sherlock's mouth so that he could use his other hand to feel for the man's pulse, and his eyes widened in realization as he felt the still-quickening pulse.

"Oh god, Sherlock." John pulled his hand away, horrified when he saw a trickle of blood on his hand and dripping from his nose. "D-Did you..."

"What?" Sherlock asked, leaning back on John's thighs.

"Are you..." John couldn't seem to form any words or sentences, desperately trying to rally his thoughts into something coherent. After a bit, all he could manage was "..._drugs?"_

"Yes, cocaine, of course," Sherlock answered as if it was nothing, a normal thing for him to be confessing. John sprang up, practically dropping Sherlock on the floor.

"Oh god." John began pacing as Sherlock stood up again, stopping in front of him and glaring. "You did _cocaine?_ For god's sake, _why?"_

"Bored." Sherlock swayed on the spot before reaching down and using the arm of John's chair to steady himself, then gave up on standing at all and plopped down into it, his legs crossing instinctively in one graceful motion. John noted without humor that even drugged up, he managed to be elegant.

"You did hard drugs because you were bored?" John stood so close to Sherlock that their knees were pressed together, leaning down and putting either hand on the top of the chair as he looked incredulously at him. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do something this dumb just because he was bored, but he still couldn't believe it.

"It's fine, it's not like it's the first time." Sherlock leaned his head back into the couch and looked down past his chin at John, smiling wickedly with other things on his mind.

"How often does," John waved a hand through the air, "_this_ happen?"

"How often do I use, do you mean?" Sherlock asked and giggled, and while Sherlock's giggle normally sent a pleasant feeling through John, this one sounded slightly slurred and eerie, all sincerity absent. "Not _too_ often, really, not since you came along. Only when I'm truly, _dreadfully_ bored, and we haven't had a case in a while and you weren't here and so I did a few lines."

John gulped, dreading the answer to his next question. He pronounced each word slowly as he asked, "Sherlock, how many lines is a few?

Sherlock hummed to himself as he thought about the question, looking up at the ceiling. "Let's see. Been doing one every half hour since about...half past noon? Yes, seems right," he finished, looking back at John's horrified expression.

"Sherlock, it's 10 at night. That means..." John did the math in his head before panic set in to his system. "My god, Sherlock, you did 19 lines of cocaine?"

"That reminds me, it's about time for my twentieth." He went to sit up but John shoved him down with one hand.

"Don't. You. Dare." John punctuated each word with a slight push against his shoulder. He glared at Sherlock a bit before sighing, reaching off to the side of the chair and grabbing a box of tissues. He plopped them into Sherlock's lap and wiped gently at Sherlock's bloodied nose with one.

"Oh, sorry, that happens." Sherlock mumbled, eyes darting about John's face in the way it usually did.

John balled up the blood-covered tissue and threw it either into or near the rubbish bin just inside the kitchen - he didn't bothering to check if it made it in - and sighed, moving his hands down to rest over Sherlock's on the arms of the chair.

"How long do these effects last?" John questioned, tone much gentler than before as he had calmed down, thumbing softly at the contours of Sherlock's large, pale hands.

"Should be a few hours. About six, tops."

"Then I am going to wait up with you and make sure you don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock scoffed at him. "You normally go to bed about an hour from now and you're already tired, the surgery was crowded and your football mates kept you there longer than usual."

John didn't even bother questioning how Sherlock knew these things anymore, he just went along with it. He was right, though. John was exhausted. "You can't sleep on this stuff?"

Sherlock shook his head, fingers fidgeting under John's. "Too hyperactive. Can barely sit still. This, right here, is torture."

John sighed. "Well, come to bed anyway. You've already got your pyjamas on."

John leaned back and entwined his hand with Sherlock's, pulling him up and wrapping an arm around his silk-clad waist for support. He walked him down the hall to what was formerly Sherlock's room but had slowly become _their_ room, laying him down on what was now _their_ bed. John shucked off his jacket and toed off his shoes, pulling down his trousers and leaving himself in his usual sleepwear of t-shirt and boxers. He lay down next to Sherlock and slipped the covers over the both of them.

"So, no sex?" Sherlock asked, turning onto his side to face John.

"No sex," John repeated with a small laugh, turning on his side as well. They were so close, he could feel Sherlock's very, _very_ gradually slowing breaths against his face. He leaned up and stole a soft, closed-mouthed kiss before sitting up a bit, propping a pillow up behind his back against the headboard. Sherlock went to follow suit, but he shook his head, running his fingers through the dark curls soothingly. "No, Sherlock, you try to sleep. Try as best you can."

They lay like that for a while, Sherlock curled against John's outstretched legs and tapping his fingers repetitively against John's thighs, and after roughly a half hour, John whispered, "Sherlock? Still up?"

"Mhm," was his response, turning his head to look up at John through his lashes. With the only light being the small amount of moonlight that filtered in through the blinds, Sherlock's face was pale and practically glowing. He was beautiful.

"Good, 'cause I need you to promise me something."

Sherlock looked at him with confusion before rolling over on his stomach in between John's legs, scooting up so that his chin rested on John's chest. The doctor couldn't imagine the position was comfortable, but he had seen Sherlock in far worse. "Promise you what?"

John placed his hands gently on Sherlock's face, thumbs smoothing over cheekbones as he stared into the still-too-bright eyes. "Never do cocaine ever. Again. Never do any drug, for that matter."

Sherlock didn't look surprised by the statement, but he still chewed at his bottom lip, looking into John's eyes as he thought. He stared like that for a short while before sighing resignedly, tilting his head to the side and pressing his cheek over John's heartbeat. "Alright, fine. I left it in the desk in the living room, we will dispose of it in the morning."

"Good." John pressed his lips to the side of Sherlock's head, breathing in the scent of his curls and, essentially, him - expensive cologne and gunpowder and _Sherlock_. "Now try to sleep, please."

Sherlock sighed once more before quickly retreating to where he had been before, wrapped around John's leg and face nuzzled into his hip. "I would suggest you do as well. A morning after cocaine is not a fun morning."

John chuckled lightly through his nose, head lolling back against the pillow behind him. He knew if he slept like this, he would wake up in the morning with a terrible pain in his back, but he was comfortable at the moment and Sherlock appeared to be as well, so he slumped a bit and with the feeling of Sherlock's warm breath against his bare leg, it was only a short while before he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
